


Strange Love

by theweightofmywords



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-16
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 02:50:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4812155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofmywords/pseuds/theweightofmywords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco should feel like Harry's dirty little secret, but he knows what he really means to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Strange Love

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns these characters. Title taken from the Halsey song of the same name.

He always leaves before dawn. Normally, you’d find this terribly humiliating, but you know him. He has his reasons, and you have yours.

And later, when you’re reading the paper, you see his eyes look up from yet another press conference. He’s smiling, but his eyes look tired. You wonder if you’re the only one who notices. For his sake, you hope you’re not. 

Some nights, you go out together, but only to muggle places. When you see groups of friends, their laughter rings in your ears. 

“We should tell them,” you find yourself saying. He is just as incredulous.

“You hate them,” he replied, his brows furrowed.

“Things change,” you answer. And that night, he leaves before midnight. You feel ashamed.

But, the next time you’re together, he apologizes. Says something about feeling caged, feeling like he owes everyone something.

“You’re the only person that isn’t trying to take a piece of me,” he tell you.

And you say, “Your friends don’t want a piece of you. They just love you.” You’re shocked at your change of heart about them. Everything that used to be true holds no water anymore. You realized this the moment you let him kiss you.

When it’s just the two of you, he likes being owned. He likes when you tell him what to do, when you treat him like the mortal that he is. He loves you, you know that, but sometimes you wonder if he only loves you because of what you represent. Do you exist just to balance his world?

But then, you read the paper and you see the lines in his face when he wears the invisibility cloak just to walk through Diagon Alley. You meet eyes when you cross paths at the ministry. You’re there for your weekly meeting with your parole officer, and he’s there to catch people like you. (“You’re not that person anymore,” he reminds you, especially on the nights you wake up in panic, your chest hurting from the guilt.) He brushes a hand across your shoulders.

“Malfoy,” he greets, his smile bigger than usual, “Good to see you.”

And the next dawn, when he leaves, you say, “It’s okay.”

“They keep wondering where I am at night,” he tells you, and you imagine them sitting around a table. You always thought that he was the one to look after them, but you realize now that he’s under their care and perhaps always has been. You don’t hate them anymore. How could you hate people who love him too? 

“You should tell them,” you reply as you watch him stir your tea. He likes doing these things for you.

“I don’t have to fucking tell them anything,” he answers, the spoon clattering to the table. The edge to his voice tells you that this conversation is over.

You wake up early the next day, and he’s still there. He’s looking at you, and you know that look so well by now. He hasn’t slept yet, and he’s been thinking. Just waiting for you to wake up so he can tell you all that’s on his mind. He’s thoughtful like that.

“If you want me to tell them– if it’s important to you,” he says, “Then I’ll tell them.”

You can feel the anxiety coming off him, the hesitation in his voice barely peeking through the surface. “No,” you answer, “I understand.”

“The whole world is pulling me in every direction. I don’t want them pulling at you either.”

“As if I’d let them,” you reply, and you smile because you know it’s true. He’s kinder than you are, and so he’s more vulnerable to the pressure. You’re tough in all the ways he isn’t, and he loves you for it.

“For now, can we just…” he murmurs, his arms wrapping around you. He’s exhausted, but he’s here, and the sun is about to rise.

You kiss his forehead and put his glasses on the bedside table. You hold him as his eyes drift shut; he is weak and vulnerable in your arms, and you force yourself to stay awake just to watch him sleep.

No one else in the world has this luxury, and you’ve always been drawn to the finer things in life


End file.
